


Dying Wish

by Ash_R



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Bobby, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, Episode: s05e04 The End, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherly Bobby, Gen, Guilty Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2227008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ash_R/pseuds/Ash_R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His dying wish was to see his brother one last time. But maybe it was just too much to ask for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

( _Beep_.  _Beep_.  _Beep_.  _Beep_.  _Beep_.)

_Penetrating trauma to the chest. Pulmonary laceration. Damaged heart. Too late. We did the best we could. Very less time to live._

All those haunting words kept whirling in his mind like a hurricane, repeating like a bullet bouncing back, richochetting off the walls of his head, echoing constantly inside his mind. He couldn't bear the thought of losing any one of the boys, because they were like his own sons. And if you lose one, you lose the other too, right? He doesn't want to believe the words the doctor said, - He wants to believe that there is a way, that the doctor was wrong.

But looking at the kid, looking so pale, so small under the plain hospital sheets, so oddly young and old at the same time, the dark shadows over his sickly-white face told him everything they said were true.

The youngest Winchester isn't going to live for much long. The wound had damaged his heart terribly, courtesy of those damn hunters. He immediately recognized Tim and Reggie from that girl's description, Lisa? Lindsey? Whatever her name was. If he wasn't in this damn wheel chair, he would've punched those assholes' faces in.

He feels a pang of guilt churn his gut. If he didn't send those hunters to Sam, maybe none of this would've happened.

The twitch in the Winchester's hand pulls him out of his reverie and he feels a small smile stretch across his lips. He takes hold of his weak hand, squeezing his baby soft skin lightly. "That's it, kid. Open up your eyes." He encourages softly.

Sam weakly rolls his head towards the voice and scrunched up his eyebrows, his eyes still closed. He half-whispers, half-mumbles out his brother's name, his heavy eye-lids still protesting at being lifted. "D'n?"

"No, it's Bobby." He corrects gently and gives his hand another gentle squeeze.

"B'bby?" Sam whispers feebly. "Wh'r's D'n?" He mumbles indistinctly and it takes Bobby a few seconds to understand what he was saying.

Damn, he really forgot to call that idgit brother of his, and he knows for sure, Dean's gonna murder him for being even  _this_  late.

Sam's eyes struggle to open, and after a few hard tries, he manages to flutter them open successfully, but only half-way, revealing his hazel eyes through half-mast eyes. He hears beeping machines, he smells antiseptic, and he sees white walls and ceilings as he looks around, and he immediately knows that he's in a hospital. His whole body feels weak and aches, considering the beating he got from those hunters, but it was the pain in his heart that hurt worse than all the others, and plus, he also feels like he's dying. He turns his head to Bobby and squints through the blur still clouding his vision.

"Hey kid." Bobby greets softly. "Welcome back." He knows he isn't going to ask if he's okay, because that's a really stupid question for someone who's about to die in under a week. He feels his heart wrench violently when he sees a weak smile thrown his way, reminding him that he's never going to see that bright, dimpled smile ever again.

And he watches as that smile starts to fade slowly when he starts telling him about what the doctors said.

 

...

 

Bobby sighs softly as he wheels out of the room with his phone in his hand. He presses speed dial number one and puts the phone to his ear. The thought of the youngest Winchester dying was overwhelming enough for him, and he just can't imagine how Dean would feel.

The other line picks up after a few rings. " _Hey Bobby._ " Dean greets him.

Bobby stays silent for a while, contemplating whether or not he should tell him.

 _He deserves to know_. A small voice in the back of his mind says. It was his own.

" _Bobby_? _You okay_?" Dean asks worriedly on the other line.

Bobby bites his lip and sighs. "It's Sam, Dean." He answers softly. "You need to get here as soon as ya can."

" _What_  -  _what happened_?" He asks on the other line quietly, concern evident in his voice.

"We're in a hospital." Bobby looks at Sam's room. "He's askin' for ya. I'll tell you everything once ya get here."

Silence ensued on the other line, an internal battle that Bobby can sense and he knows Dean isn't going to say no to this.

But what he hears next shocks him to the core. Anger burning inside him like fire and at the same time, he was appalled by Dean's cold words and behaviour.

" _Well_ ,  _tell him I can't come_ ,  _I'm sorry_." He answers, his tone changing to hard and icy with coldness.

"Dean -  _what_?" He whispers, appalled.

" _I can't come running to him every time he gets hurt_ ,  _Bobby_.  _He's a grown up now and he doesn't need me anymore_.  _His actions' of the past year had shown that_. _This whole separation thing_? _It was his idea_ ,  _and he can't take that back like it never happened_.  _I'm sorry Bobby_ ,  _but not this time_.  _You're there anyway_ ,  _you take care of him_." He says.

"He does need you dammit! That's why he's asking for you! That's why he wants to see you!" Bobby yells into the phone desperately.

"... _I'm sorry Bobby_." Dean says, sticking to his answer stubbornly.

"Don't do this Dean. He's - "  _about to die and you won't ever see him again_.

But he doesn't get the chance to say the rest when the other line starts beeping. He pulls the phone off of his ear, shocked.

 

...

 

Bobby wheels inside Sam's room, who was staring at him with such intense hope glowing in his eyes and he just knows he doesn't have it in him to shatter it. He bites his lips.

"'S he c'ming?" Sam whispers weakly.

Bobby stares quietly at him and tries to swallow down the lie, but seeing him look so hopeful, and he knows the truth is gonna break him into pieces.

So he forces the answer out, wrenches the lie from his body and says it out loud.

"Yeah kid.  _He's comin'_."

Something inside him breaks when he sees the utter relief and happiness on his face.


	2. Another Lie

A small and weak smile graces his lips, lifts the corners of his mouth slightly as he feels a kind of serenity wash over him. It rises something inside his chest, something he hasn't felt for so long; happiness.

He forgot what it felt like, to feel his heart swell with hope and joy, to feel butterflies in his stomach from all the excitement, to feel like a kid who can't wait to see his big brother after school, and it's funny how something like meeting his brother again after only weeks of separation and in his last moments is what brings all that back.

He turns his head towards Bobby, only to find a face darkened with sorrow and distraught, and eyes full of guilt and remorse. His eyebrows furrow in puzzlement at the overwhelming emotions, and he feebly reaches out a hand that feels too heavy and seems to eat away all his remaining strength, and rests it on his shoulder. He doesn't squeeze though, too drained to do the gesture.

Bobby startles slightly at the sudden weight on his shoulder, and he looks over at the kid. A question shining in his concerned eyes that he doesn't seem to have enough energy to voice out, one he always asks whenever he sees someone he loves in distress.

 _You okay_?

Bobby tries to smile, he really does, but it hurts to do so because of everything happening around him and the fact that his surrogate youngest is about to die in  _under a freaking week_. The smile feels clearly fake on his lips, it doesn't even reach his eyes, but Sam doesn't notice it.

And it also seems the fatigue is starting to catch up to him as the small slit of his hazel eyes finally close together and his breathing evens out, right after the old hunter gives him a small, reassuring smile and runs a hand through the kid's soft, chocolate-brown hair.

"I'm so sorry, kid." He whispers softly to the oblivious young boy, and that's exactly what he looks like right now as he snores softly, save for the paleness of his skin and the dark shadows under his eyes that look a bit more prominent than before.

 

****...** **

 

Bobby tries to call Dean again. He tries his number three times, none of them picked up by him, and he's one unanswered call away from losing his patience and temper.

He presses speed-dial one again, and something inside him erupts like a volcano when the same result comes.

" _Hey, it's Dean, leave me a -_  "

He switches the phone off angrily and slams his fist against the wall beside him, panting heavily as his fingers tighten around his phone, his knuckles throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat. His blood boils, and he swears he's never been more furious in his whole lifetime as much as he is now.

 

****...** **

 

He wheels inside the room after he has collected himself and moves towards the kid, whose whole body - that once used to be so tense all the time - seems so relaxed at this moment, and his face is calm and at absolute peace when it used to be the other way around, always either stressed and anxious with worried lines, or depressed and guilty.

And as he stares at the innocent face lying on the hospital bed, it occurs to him that about a week later only, this kid might never open his eyes once he falls to sleep.

The realization hits him hard, it leaves his chest aching with grief and pending loss, and the corners of his eyes wet with tears, but he quickly brushes them off.

He feels as if he failed this kid somehow, as if he betrayed him by lying to him ( _maybe that's exactly what he did_ ), maybe he should have told him the truth.

But then he imagines the pained, shattered look on his face, and he remembers why he did it.

He still doesn't know what to do.

 

**...**

 

Sam wakes up the next morning, somewhere around ten'o'clock. He feels a bit better than last night, he's still really tired and weak, but more alive, except the pain in his damaged heart didn't abate in the least, and if he didn't know any better, it probably got even worse, so he just tries his best to ignore it. And the first thing he does is search around the room expectantly, and when he doesn't find what he's looking for, he looks at Bobby.

"Where's Dean?" He asks weakly, his voice nothing above a hoarse whisper.

Bobby stills completely, his hand frozen half-way through the motion of flipping a page of the magazine on his lap.

Sam stares at Bobby with wide, hopeful eyes.

Bobby smiles nervously as he moves towards the side-table and fills a cup with water, lifting the young hunter's head with one hand and helping him drink it with the other.

Once they're done, Sam drops his head back on the pillow and Bobby instantly tries to change the topic. "Good morning, kid. How you feeling?"

"Like I'm about to die in a week." Sam jokes lightly, his voice now sounding more clearer, but still feeble.

"That ain't funny." Bobby answers solemnly as he puts the cup of glass back on the table.

Sam sighs softly. "Yeah, I know." He looks down at his hands. "Sorry."

Bobby nods and looks at him with a raised eyebrow expectantly.

"Well, my heart hurts like hell, heartbeat feels a bit slow or something, still feeling drained and weak."

"Alright." Bobby sighs, and then adds, "You need a doctor?"

"No, not really. I can handle it." Sam answers, earning an exasperated sigh from Bobby as he knows he's probably preferring to tough it out rather than admit that he wants help.

A comfortable silence fills the whole room for a few, short minutes, until Sam breaks it.

"So, where  _is_  Dean? I thought he was supposed to be here by now."

Bobby swallows, staring holes into the floor as he tries to come up with a compatible lie. "He . . . got some important things to take care of, so he won't be here for at least a few days."

Sam looks convinced, hence the sad puppy-eyes. "Oh."

Bobby rushes to add, so as to not make the kid upset, "It'll only take about two or three days." Another lie, and it twists his gut in shame. He just keeps piling lies upon lies on Sam, along with adding guilt upon guilt on himself, and it hurts to do this, especially when he's lying to the kid in his last days.

But he knows the truth isn't an option either. It'll only hurt for longer if he does.

The easy quietness is now feeling suffocating and eerie to Bobby.

But he would've taken it any day over the next question Sam asks.

"Do . . ." He stops, sighing softly before he continues his next words, the tone of his voice only a sad whisper. "Do you think he'll make it before - " He trails off, swallowing shakily before he looks down again.

". . . Yeah. Of - of course he'll make it." He chokes out.

And another lie.


	3. Keep Holding On

Three more days have passed.

Three more long, painful days of Sam's continuous questioning about Dean's whereabouts and his ' _important work_ ', and receiving only lies as the answers.

Three lugubrious days filled with compunction, melancholy and agony for Bobby.

He stayed with his surrogate youngest throughout the day and night, never once abandoning his side for a second except when it was necessary. He watched Sam get worse over time; watched as he became weaker and weaker with each day to the point where he could barely even sit up anymore; could barely talk much without losing too much of his strength.

Could barely breathe.

And  _God_ , it hurt so bad, hearing him struggle to breathe so hard, even with that damn oxygen mask covering his mouth; and the constant fear of them stopping any second made a home in the pit of his stomach, weighing down his heart every living minute.

"Don'...don' think m'gon'a...gonn' las' long, Bobby." His whispers were more feeble than before, and so were his smiles, barely even showing a glimpse of his deep dimples. His voice was always strained, always so soft and light that sometimes Bobby would have to lean in to understand what he was saying.

And that also hurt.

It was such a huge emphasis on what's about to happen, what's getting closer to them with every minute that passed. Bobby feared that dreadful day, hoped, wished,  _prayed_ , that maybe somehow it wouldn't come, maybe he wouldn't have to see it, or at least it wouldn't be as close as it felt. He prayed for a few more days to spend time with him, to get through to Dean's cellphone and call him here and fulfill his youngest's dying wish.

But that wasn't gonna happen any time soon.

Because fate was cruel, especially if your last name was Winchester, or if you had any relationships with them.

"You just hold on, son. Just keep holding on."

 

**...**

 

Dean sits on the edge of his bed, clutching tightly at the sheets with his knuckles and fingers whitened because of it. He swallows hard as he glances over at his phone, which he had turned into silent mode days ago. Missed calls came from Bobby, reaching almost a fifty in the past four days.

He can't.

He just  _can't_.

He can't talk to his brother, see him so soon, forgive him so easily. He wants to be furious with him for longer, he wants him to be hurt with his actions, the same way Dean was when he chose Ruby over him, wrapped his very own hands around his big brother's throat and  _choked_  him, and then left him all alone in that motel room, battered and bruised.

And that's why he'll keep resisting, keep fighting against the urge to answer the phone, to get in the car and drive all the way to his little brother.

He knows how selfish he was being, how ridiculous, childish even; and also a bit hypocritical, because after all, he was the one who taught his brother that no matter how bad your mistakes were, family always forgave you.

But for this once, just this once; he couldn't bring himself to care.

He just can't understand why Bobby wasn't letting this go.

 

**...**

 

"D-De'n 'ere 'et?" He whispers hopefully another evening, his eyes open in mere slits.

Bobby shakes his head, feeling a clenching sensation in his gut at the disappointed look on his face that he has already seen a thousand times these past few days, but still unable to get used to it. He had tried, God knows he had tried so much, but Dean still wasn't picking up his damn phone.

He still won't give up though.

Bobby may not be a Winchester, but if there was one thing he was good at doing; it was being as stubborn as a titanium wall. It was persevering.

"'How lon'?" He breathes out softly, his chest rising high, before falling low again; and the cycle continues. A stream of hard, gasping coughs wrack his body and suddenly penetrate through the short, hesitant silence.

"Not sure, kid." Bobby replies after Sam's head flops back onto the pillow, his voice numb and impassive even as the guilt gripped his stomach painfully.

Sam just nods wearily and sighs lowly, coughing slightly again. He lets his eyes drop shut; and for a minute, Bobby thought he fell asleep. But then he opens his eyes again, albeit half-mast, but still open none the less.

"Talk t'me." He exhales out, his breaths heavy and his voice a light whisper as he rolls his head towards him weakly, staring quietly at him with all the attention of a little kid about to listen to his favorite story again at night.

"Okay, uh . . . " He stops and falls silent, thinking on what he could tell him.

 _How about the truth?_  An irritable voice suggested in his head. It was his own again.

"Do you remember the first day your Papa left ya at my house?"

Sam, not wanting to spend any more of his energy on talking, simply shook his head slightly.

"Ah, of course ya wouldn't. You were only three, and your brother; almost seven. That boy was so protective of ya, and I remember that clearly. It actually kinda scared me, ya know." He admits and chuckles softly. "You somehow managed to crawl up on my chair and mess up some hunting research papers of mine with your crayons." He smiled with fond awe as the memories flooded his mind, a far-away look in his eyes as he told the story. "I got mad and scolded you for it, and you started crying."

_"Damn it." Bobby muttered softly to himself, massaging his aching temples as he stared at the weeping toddler. He strode forward hastily as if in panic, folding his legs and kneeling in front of him. "I'm sorry, Sam."_

_The lightly voiced apology had no effect on him whatsoever as the infant continued to cry, his face flushed red and a wet mess of tears. "I'm sorry, kid." He tried again, and still no improvement._

_"Sammy!" He heard a high-pitched and childish voice yell worriedly, and he looked behind him and towards the doorway to where Dean was standing. He watched as the young boy started running towards his baby brother, and when he reached there; he placed his hands under his sibling's armpits and picked him off the chair._

_And with a hard, angry glare sent towards him along with the fiery protectiveness burning in his eyes for his brother, he exited the library room._

"He somehow managed ta' calm ya down later, and then came to me. He talked to me, lectured me. The kid even threatened me." He laughs softly at those past, cherished moments, shaking his head. "And you . . . you wouldn't even look at me. You'd just hide behind your big brother's leg whenever ya saw me. So in the end, I had to ask Dean what I had to do to make you like me. Said you liked chocolate chip cookies. So . . . " He stops when he risks a brief glance down at the young man, only to find him with his eyes closed, his breaths heavy and even as he snored softly.

He sighs softly, reaching up his fingers and brushing the bangs off his forehead, a small smile gracing his lips at the innocence.

The smile slowly slips away as he gazes quietly at his sickly-white face. "You just keep holding on, alright kid?" He murmured gently the same words he did just this morning, his voice laced with sorrow and grief.


	4. What's To Come

Sam finds out the truth on the evening of the seventh day.

It happened in the most unlikely and unexpected way for Bobby; because the imagery of the moment of truth in his mind was quite different than what  _actually_  happened. Mostly, Bobby had just  _hoped_  and imagined that he would get through to Dean's phone and tell him everything, and then he would come to the hospital and make it in time to fulfil his baby brother's final, dying wish. And then he wouldn't have to reveal the truth anyhow; but if that wasn't what would happen, then he just visualized blurting out the truth at some point in the remnants of his surrogate youngest's shortened life.

But instead, it was his forgotten cellphone left on the little night-table beside Sam's bed that brought everything out in the open.

 

**...**

 

Sam slowly eases his eyelids half-way open, once again revealing his hazel orbs through slit eyes. He swallows thickly against his dry throat, trying to dampen it. He calls out for his substitute father, his hoarse voice a tiny, simple whisper, "B'bby?"

He receives no respond from the only other usual occupant of the room; and weakly rotates his head to his side, pressing his cheek into the comfortable warmth of the pillow. As expected, his thoughts were confirmed when he finds himself to be alone in the room. Bobby probably just went to the bathroom, he figures.

He exhales out a gentle breath as his mind drifts. Most of the time, he doesn't even realize how many days have passed. He just comes and goes from the living world constantly; and Bobby would have to provide him with all the details, remind him of how many days have passed, what time of the day it was. He talks to him all day long, even when he's asleep, and he knows because he always wakes up to the sound of his voice, telling him stories from their childhood.

Bobby means so much to him, because he has been like a father to him ever since he could remember; and he just can't express the gratitude and love he felt for the older man. Ever since he opened his eyes to this hospital room, Bobby had stayed with him throughout everything, barely ever leaving him alone despite his various requests and pleadings to take care of himself first.

He just wished Dean was here. His big brother would've been doing the same thing.

He was just about to close his eyes when he saw it.

Bobby's phone sitting on the side-table.

A small smile slowly forms on his lips.

It takes almost every bit of his strength when his heavy, trembling hand reaches for it and grabs it loosely. He slowly brings it towards himself, carefully balancing it on his heaving chest; his weakness limiting his movements, and now he's feeling incredibly drained of energy.

But it was worth it as he calls his brother's number.

 

**...**

 

Bobby hastily rolls his wheels towards Sam's room as he hears loud beeping of heart monitors, completely ignoring the nurses rushing inside and outside as he pushed past the crowd of blue scrubs. His heart pounds rapidly with fear, his gut twisting anxiously as the horrible images of the worst possibilities flood his mind.

No, no, no. Sam can't be dead. Not so soon. Not before Dean sees his brother for the last time.

This favor was as much for Dean as it was for Sam. Because Bobby knew that Dean would already be really guilty and broken when he would find out that his brother was dying and that he refused to see him in his final moments of life; that he had wasted all of his remaining time with Sam ignoring his calls. But even more so, he'd be completely shattered to know that he was too late to answer his phone, to know that he didn't take the chance to see Sam's face one last time, to say all the things he would've wanted to tell him but never had the courage to.

It was that thought that kept him from giving up.

But if  _Sam_  gives up . . .

No, he can't think that. Sam will hold on for as long as he can, for Dean, for Bobby.

And today's only the seventh day. Sam's stronger than that, right?

He reaches Sam's room, his voice panicked as he excuses himself through the horde of nurses.

"Sir, please! You must calm down!" The doctor exclaims, his hand on his patient's heaving chest to hold him down.

"Leggo!" Sam's hoarse, determined voice is nothing above a whisper. But what hurts Bobby the worst was how easily he's restrained for a man his size, with only a single hand on his chest.

"Sam." Bobby says his name softly in a relieved and shaky breath; and the young man's wide, terrified eyes swiftly snap towards him.

"B-B'bby! W-we haff - hafta' go." He tells him frantically as he struggles against the doctor's hand, fear and anxiety and pain lacing his voice. Beads of sweat form on his forehead, his features scrunched up with agony; and his breaths were coming out in heavy pants, from both panick and pain.

"I'll calm him down." Bobby says, wheeling forward.

The doctor nods, knowing too well that sometimes, only a patient's family is capable of such tasks. "Too much stress is not good for his condition. Please take care." He says; and with a respectful nod of goodbye, he retreats out of the room with the medical staff shuffling behind him.

"Okay, now relax and tell me what's wrong."

Bobby waits in complete silence as his youngest tries to control his frantic emotions and his rapid breathing, closing his eyes and pulling in greedy breaths to feed his starved lungs.

"S'De'n." He begins after a while, penetrating through the slience. His voice was soft and weary as the rush of adrenaline exits his body, leaving him exhausted. "Wh-wh'n you were gon', t'ied t'call 'im. Lods a'times. Buh' still wasn' picking a'his ph'ne. Thin' he's n'trouble."

Bobby furrows his eyebrows in confusion, wondering how the kid found a phone.

"Y'f'rgot it." Sam answers his silent thoughts, smiling weakly.

His hands move instinctively to his pockets, searching for that solid lump of his phone.

He finds them flat.

He looks at Sam first, and then checks the night table.

And then his peripheral vision catch sight of a rectangular black object, and he turns his gaze towards the bed, beside Sam's pale arm.

He sighs as he grabs it, mentally slapping himself for leaving his phone here ( _for leaving the path to his lies exposed_.)

"W-we gotta 'elp 'im.  _Please_." Sam whispers between heavy breaths, helpless tears filling his eyes.

"You know we can't go, kid." Bobby says softly, his gentle eyes sympathetic at his youngest's tears.

"Buh' we can't jus' - "

"Look at me, Sam." Bobby says lightly, his sad voice coaxing as he gestures to his legs, and letting his hands fall weakly on his lap . Then he adds, in a voice almost as low as a whisper. "Look at yourself."

He swallows as his gut clenches with the same guilt that's been eating away at him for the past seven days, his heart weighing down with sorrow once again. He knew he should just tell him the truth right now instead of continuing this exhausting cycle of lies.

But he has gone so far now that he has no idea how to go back.

"H-how could y's-say tha'? Sam says, his eyes wide and tearful, his voice thick. "De'n coul' - cou' be d-dyin' ou' th-th're. Don' - don' you care?"

Bobby takes off his baseball cap and runs his fingers through his balding hair, sighing lightly as he wonders how to tell someone that your brother isn't picking up his phone because he doesn't know that you're dying and is still pissed at you for your last year's actions and that's why he doesn't want to come, not because he's in trouble or hurt.

"C-can't sit 'ere while m'brother's hur'."

"Sam - "

"We haf' - hafta 'elp 'im.  _Please_." He begs softly, tears dampening his cheeks.

"Sam, you don't understand..."

" _Please_." He pleads again.

The old hunter swallows against the dryness in his throat. "Listen, there's something I need to tell you, kid." Bobby says, his tone hesitant and anxious. But the idea of potential relief from the burden of his guilt and lies gave him the extra push and strength that he needed.

He closes his weary eyes, deepening his breaths and exhaling them as he internally braces himself for what he's about to do.

For what's to come.


	5. A Good Father

_-A day earlier_

He charges forward at the back of the last vampire as he raises his machete high, catching it unaware as he swings his acuminous blade at its neck and successfully decapitates its head off. Blood spatters all over his face and clothes, more little specks of fresh red drying into a disgusting brown.

He wipes the back of his sleeve at his red-dotted face, his mouth twisted into a snarl as he stares down at the corpse of the now dead creature.

His phone vibrates in his pockets once again, as it has been ever since he turned his phone on in favor of receiving word of new kills from his fellow hunters. Bobby hasn't stopped calling him for seven days straight, and it sure was beginning to get on his freaking nerves.

"Great job, man." Trace, his current hunting partner, praises him with a wide grin on his face, clapping him on the back.

"Thanks. You too." Dean replies, smirking back at him.

Trace looks down at the low vibrating sound his pocket's emitting, and he gestures at it. "You gonna pick that up?"

He bites his lip, his hand slowly coming to rest on the solid lump of his phone underneath his jeans' pocket as his heart and gut begs him to answer the call.

But he ignores it.

He raises his chin, his fingers withdrawing as he looks at the other hunter straight in the eye.

"Nah . . . it's nothing important."

 

**...**

 

He knows there is just no other way around this. No other way  _out_  of this, except to tell the truth.

So that's what he does.

"I called yer brother the very first day you got into this hospital." He begins softly as his nauseous stomach clenches with anxiety and his heart pounds heavily to the point where he could hear every single beat in his ears, not believing what he is really about to do. He feels detached from his body, like he is another person, watching fate's cruelty unfold in front of him with him having no control over it no matter what he did.

His mind is stuck on that memory of Dean refusing to come here, of Sam's hopeful eyes and heartbreaking questions, and he desperately hopes that this wouldn't be the thing to kill him ( _make him stop fighting_ ), that this wouldn't be too much for his already weak heart. He allows his mouth to do all the work for him as the words tumble out, while he tries not to dwell on what will happen next. "I told him to come, but he... he said no."

(" _Well, tell him I can't come, I'm sorry._ ")

"It's my fault. 'Cause I shoulda told him straight out what was really going on, but instead I decided ta beat around the bushes. Said I'll tell him everything once he gets here when I shoulda told him right then and there that..." He pauses, swallowing hard against his aching throat. "That you were dying." He hates his voice for breaking, hates himself for being so weak ( _Hates himself for what he did to this kid_ ).

(" _I can't keep running to him every time he gets hurt, Bobby._ ")

"Tried to call the idjit a hundred times, probably two hundred by now, but he's avoiding my calls like the freaking plague."

(" _He's a grown up now and he doesn't need me anymore._ ")

He swallowed shakily, a thin line of tears crowding the edge of his weary eyes. "I'm sorry, kid." He whispered softly, swallowing shakily once again at the weight in his throat ( _Wishes he can somehow get rid of the weight in his chest_ ). "I thought I could fix it, ya know? Thought I'd get through ta' him before ya found out."

Bobby has barely ever cried in all his years, barely ever come close. In the place of shedding all his tears of agony, he had always chosen to drink it all away. He didn't cry when John died, or when he lost Caleb or Pastor Jim. Instead, he drank until he couldn't anymore. Drank until he passed out or until he was only a few millilitres away from getting alcohol poisoning.

But he had never cried.

For the first time in so long, he does.

The dam finally breaks as a few tears rush down his cheeks, and he takes ahold of his youngest's hand. "I'm . . . I'm so damn sorry, kid." He says, his voice nearly a whisper as his face crumples. "For . . . for lying to ya. For not being strong enough to tell ya."

(" _I'm sorry, Bobby._ ")

Everything remains silent for a while.

"S'alrigh'." Sam whispers, hoarse and weak.

Bobby's heart crumbles all together.

Because of the way his voice breaks, a trembling strangled sound that shoots a sudden sharp pain at his heart. Because of the way he bites his lips, trying to control its quivering. Because of the dejection and hurt that he could hear in those words in a thousand volumes. Because of the way his eyes are ducked down, no doubt trying to hide the tears that were probably shining in his eyes like a reflection of the shattered pieces of his hope and joy.

This was the reason he never told him.

He swallows, his grip tightening slightly. "He has no idea that your days are numbered, kid. He doesn't know that he's losing ya."

He swears his heart breaks even more, if possible, when he sees those tears fall.

He sighs deeply, raising his other hand to drag a hand down his own wet and haggard face. "Goddamnit." He breathes out, shaking his head as he huffs out an unamused laugh. "Really screwed up this time, haven't I?"

He closes his eyes, swallowing hard as he fought the burning of more incoming tears, his hand still on his ducked head. Now he has seen the outcome of his actions, and he can't believe it. Can't believe what he has done, how much he has failed them both.

But then he feels the weight of a large hand lying on top of his.

And his heart lurches in his chest.

He slowly removes his hand away from his head, and looks up at Sam.

At his gentle hazel ( _still damp with tears_ ) eyes, staring fondly at him.

And though his face and eyes are pained and sad and full of longing for his big brother.

His smile, although small and weak and tired, is full of happiness and love for  _him_.

And with that smile and a feeble pat to his hand, he utters the words that give Bobby all the confidence and determination and strength he needed to keep going.

"Y're...y're a g-g'd...f-fath'r."

 

**...**

 

He calls and calls and calls.

An hour elapses, and he still calls.

Once again, he finds himself in the hallway outside Sam's room, calling that idjit's number like some crazy stalker. And he has to give Dean credit for his damn stubbornness, though he also wants to curse at him for it.

But Bobby isn't going to let himself be any less persistent than him.

Even though he is just really sick and tired of hearing the sound of the phone ringing ( _anyone would have after hearing it a hundred times in only a week_ ), he'll do this.

No matter how long it takes, no matter what it takes.

Because Sam  _really_  wants this, and it's the only thing he does. Not an entire long bucket list full of vacations to his favorite places and adventures he had always wanted to try out, or people he had always wanted to meet and things he had always wanted to see or do. None of that. Just his big brother, that's all he wants.

Because he doesn't want to see Dean break even more than he already will after he loses the person he spent his entire life protecting and caring for. After he loses the most important thing in his world.

Because they're  _his_  boys, and he doesn't want to let them down.

No, he isn't letting go this time, not until he gets through.

He didn't know what he expected, whether he believed it would work this time or not.

All he knew was that there was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to hear Dean's voice come through his phone from the other end.

And so, he was understandably shocked when he finally got his wish.

" _Damn it, Bobby! What the hell?!_ "


	6. Don't Let Him Go

Bobby had visualized this moment to be full of relief and joy for him, knowing that all his fears and worries were for nothing after all, and that all his patience had finally paid off in the end. But frankly, that didn't turn out to be the case. All the joy and relief he felt the second he heard Dean's voice come through the other line soon melts away from the white-hot fiery rage bubbling up within him like lava, the rage that had been building up and suppressed for over an entire week, and now he's going to let the damn idjit burn in its heat. He wouldn't hold back.

"You stupid ass! You friggin' son of a bitch!" he yells angrily into the phone as his stomach and chest burns with wrath, his tightly clenching fists causing his phone to emit a low cracking sound, his breaths roaring through his nose as his face colors a furious shade of red. "I've been calling ya for a whole goddamn week, ya friggin' bastard! Driving myself crazy trying ta' get through ta' ya. Ya should be glad ya ain't standing here right in front of me, or else ya' wouldn' have been able to sit for friggin' years! No, scratch that, ya wouldn' have been able to move a goddamn  _finger_  after I would've been through with ya!"

He's left panting heavily at the end of his rant, and even after all of that, there's so much more he wants to say, scream some more sense into that damn idjit. But he's afraid that if he does so for any longer, Dean just might get sick and tired of hearing it all and hang up on him, and he doesn't think he has another bout of strength or another week to go through the same thing again ( _his heart hurt at the thought_ ), and certainly no more patience or tolerance left in him. So instead he remains silent, other than the heavy breaths pushing forcefully out of his lungs.

"Are you done? Is that what you've been calling me for a whole damn week non-stop?" Dean says, a hint of sarcasm in his tone and Bobby can almost hear the annoyed roll of his eyes in his voice.

"No," he bites out, still shaking from his outrageous fit.

"Then what the hell do you want, Bobby?"

"It's about Sam."

"Look, if you're going to tell me some sob story about how much Sam wants to see me and misses me or... or whatever it is that you think will make me change my mind, you can forget about it. My decision is final. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I am  _not_ \- "

"Sam's dying."

There, he said it.

He finally told Dean, blunt and straightforward. Finally told the words he had been pressing up in his heart, the words eating away at him from the inside for an entire agonizing week. Seven friggin' days of worrying and fearing that he'll never get to Dean, that he'll never be able to tell him before it's too late, that Sam will never see the person he wanted to see more than anything, will never get his dying wish. That he'll let both of them down. And now he's finally  _told him_. Most of the time has already gone by, but he's still thankful for whatever's left of it, still thankful that Sam's still breathing when Dean finds out, when Bobby tells him.

But it still doesn't feel good in the least. And he knows, in that moment, that he would have done anything to say something else, anything other than friggin'  _Sam's dying_.

A long silence ensues on the other end, and though there's nothing, Bobby can feel the shock in it. He doesn't blame the kid. Out of all the things he might have expected, this was probably the last on his mind.

"The hunters... they got him, boy. Right in the goddamn heart," Bobby whispers softly, breaking through the delicate silence between the two lines. He can feel his eyes burn ( _much_ _like Dean's probably were right now_ ), his throat heavy with sadness as he continues. "The wound was too bad, and it damaged the kid's heart. The doctors estimated somewhere under a week. But..." he swallows when his voice cracks, then laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. "God knows how he even made it to this day. Stubborn idjit can't even  _breathe_ properly without the damn mask on his face."

 

**...**

 

" _Sam's dying_."

He freezes, his breaths knocking out of his lungs as if someone just slammed an iron crowbar against his ribs. His knees weaken, hands trembling, and he barely manages to stop himself from crumpling to the floor as he half-falls and half-sits on the bed behind him, gripping the edges and sheets with his free hand. He presses the phone firmly against his ear, his eyes burning and his insides clenching with fear and despair and devastation.

 _Sam's dying_.

He lets the words sink into his numb brain.

 _Sam's dying_.  _Sam's dying._ _Sam'sdying_ _Sam'sdying_ _Sam'sdying-_

And all he can think is, _I can't do this again. I can't. Not again. Please, not again. _I can't do this again._ Ican'tIcan'tIcan't I just-_

_I can't._

He thinks back to Cold Oak, back to that empty, dark, hollowness crushing his heart, the constant weight and clenching in his gut and the never-ending ache in his chest. That hopelessness and despair gripping his insides, of the thought of never seeing his baby brother alive, smiling and laughing and bantering with him ever again, the feeling of never being able to escape the horrible grief filling his entire being because he'll never see the kid's puppy eyes look at him again. All the memories, good and bad, making him sick with remorse and longing and sorrow and desolation. He remembered his baby brother's blood on his hands, remembers the desperate denial of the fact that this was really the end of his life as he tried to console him and himself.

" _It's not even that bad, alright?_ "

Remembers the agony when he realized that he slipped away, right in front of him.

" _That's my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?_ "

Remembers holding onto his cold and dead body for hours.

He can't do any of that again.

Maybe Bobby's lying. Maybe this was just some kind of sick way of tricking him into coming.

Yeah. Yeah, that's what it probably is.

But as much as he wants to believe in that, he knows.

He knows because Bobby would never do something like that. It's not like him. He knows because of that deep instinctive feeling in the pit of his gut, the one he always gets whenever something's wrong with Sammy. And it's almost always right. He knows because he'll believe anything his mind tells him as long as it gets him away far, far away from ' _Sam's dying_ '.

He feels his blood boil with rage as Bobby continues to talk, telling him about the hunters. And he's just about to open his mouth and demand their names when he hears the next words.

" _The wound was too bad, and it damaged the kid's heart. The doctors estimated somewhere under a week. But..." A hollow, mirthless laugh."God knows how he even made it to this day. Stubborn idjit can't even_ breathe _properly without the damn mask on his face._ "

And he feels that same blood run cold with fear.

_The doctors estimated somewhere under a week._

That's when a cruel realization strikes at him brutally, like a ton of bricks colliding against his chest, and it hits so hard that he feels his lungs cease to breathe for a moment, feels his heart and stomach tightening with remorse and guilt.

All those days he spent ignoring Bobby's calls, letting every one minute he could have had with his brother waste away, every minute he could have saved if he had just gotten over his hurt and self-pity and picked up the phone. All that time he lost, he'll never get it back.

 _God knows how he even made it to this day. Stubborn idjit can't even_ breathe _properly without the damn mask on his face._

Sam will never get it back either.

He won't waste another second.

" _Dean?_ "

He swallows down the lump in his throat, schools his features into stoicism and determination, and strides over to his bag, shoving everything into it.

"Don't let him go anywhere."

He hangs up the phone and grabs his bag, storming towards the door. He pulls it open, steps out, shuts the door behind him, then stalks to the car and opens the gate, getting into the driver's seat.

The car rumbles as he turns the engine on.

 _I'm coming, Sammy_.


	7. Time Of Death

It's almost funny how cruel life can be.

Bobby was never a deep man. He was never one to contemplate about life, about this world, about how things work in it. But he did sometimes wonder the  _whys_  and  _hows_ in his own life, like when his abusive father used to smack him and his mother around, or when Karen died, or when he had to watch his two boys get screwed over and over by the world.

Like now.

When he got off the phone with Dean, messaged him the location, and soon heard the beeping machines of a heart that's nearing its final beats.

A heart that's dying.

Giving up.

And he silently wonders, as the nurses and doctors rush around in the kid's room and yell things he can't understand to each other, whether life was laughing at them as it screwed them over once more.

 

****...** **

 

He's crying as he watches them try to keep his heartbeat up. And he's crying so hard that he can't even breathe, and he wonders if this was how Sam felt in his last days; the constant pain in his chest, the crude despair, the breathlessness. The same cold fear that had haunted him for the past week has seemingly returned, settling into the deep pit of his stomach and constricting his heart. And here he was, thinking it was over, thinking he'd never have to feel it ever again.

He wonders, like he has been all this time, whether this is finally going to be it, the kid's last day, and whether Dean's going to reach here on time. But then, will it matter if it will only be to see his brother die right before his eyes all over again? He thinks about how wrong all of this is, how cruel and unfair it is for his boys, how untimely it all is.

And it was then he realizes something, something that wrenches and jolts his heart painfully in his chest and would have dropped him to his knees if he were able to stand.

He never got to tell Sam.

Somewhere in his mind, he already knows he never will.

 

**...**

 

He breaks all the speed limits as he drives down the empty road, the car rumbling towards the place he knows his  _family_ 's residing in, where his entire world's ending. There's remorse and shame burning in his chest as he thinks about all the wasted time that could have been spent with his brother instead, terror and anxiety clenching his gut as he wonders whether he'll be able to do this one thing right in this entire situation and get to him or the universe will screw with them again ( _because isn't that what always happens?_ ) as he worries about when it's all going to go wrong.

Loss and grief pushing down on him as he imagines what life would be like after it does.

And he doesn't know. He doesn't know how he'll keep breathing for every next day once his brother's stops. He doesn't know how he'll go on for the rest of his life when he barely made it through another hour the first time. There are no more deals that he can sell his soul to, no more deals in which he can exchange his life for his brother's. There's nothing he can do anymore to keep the very purpose for his existence, the only reason for his perseverance, alive and with him.

He'll forgive everything, each and every one of his mistakes if it meant not losing him. He'll do anything if it meant he could spend his forever with his brother.

If he could have another chance with him, he'll do better.

 

**...**

 

Sam's back arches off the bed as the paddles are pulled away, loud beeps filling the noisy and tense atmosphere of the room. It's the only thing Bobby hears in the midst of everything, the only thing that he holds on to because it's his and Dean's and Sam's last hope ( _as long as it's beeping, he's alive and that's everything to him in that moment_ ).

"You just hold on, son. Just keep holding on," he whispers the same words he's been pleading all along.

 

**...**

 

" _Heartrate's slowing!_ "

He's running. He's running so fast that the entire world's blurring by him but it doesn't matter because right now  _his_  world is dying in that hospital bed in ICU 22, his world that's falling and ending and on the verge of crumbling around him.

_50_

_40_

He hears the turbulent, alarming beeps somewhere in the distance.

_30_

_20_

And somewhere in his frantic mind, he notices it getting clearer and sharper the more he's nearing the room he's rushing towards.

_10_

And he hopes it's not what he thinks.

_0_

 

**...**

 

They're stepping away from the bed, heads bowed in respect as they do so. The heart machine's trailing flatlines, no longer giving the reassuring beeps of a living and beating heart. And the truth's right there on the screen of that damn machine, but he refuses to believe in it. Because Dean's not here and Sam doesn't know that he's coming and he hasn't gotten the one last thing he's ever wanted and Bobby  _can't_  let them down like this.

He's screaming at them, sorrow and grief that's weighing deep into his soul melding into desperation and denial and rage that smolders and burns in his heavy chest and colors his wet eyes red as he yells at them to not give up on the kid so soon ( _even though they've already been trying long enough_ ) and to keep going because  _it can't just be over like this_.

But some part of him knew it was.

" _Time of death, 5:41pm._ "


	8. Goodbyes And Forevers

 

The view is blocked by scrubs and white coats when he reaches the room. And their heads are all bowed down, and the heart machine's flatlining and Bobby's there in the corner, and his face and his silence is enough.

And all he could think is  _no no no no this can't be happening this can't be happening it can't be happening not again I can't do this again-_

"Sammy?" he whispers.

All heads turn to look at him, but he doesn't look back at any of them, because his eyes are fixed on his little brother lying pale and cold on the bed with a chest too still and a heart machine beside him that doesn't show any signs of life and he can't think of anything else other than the fact that he slipped away from him just like in Cold Oak except this time he's never coming back -

In the next two seconds, he's walking across the room, beside his brother, standing over his body and looking down at him.

And he's wondering why he never let go of his anger for a while and picked up the phone long enough to  _know_. (At least he wouldn't have had to feel this regret and agony crushing his chest of the fact that he's  _too late_  and the guilt making his stomach swirl with sickness).

The staff shuffles out of the room behind him, but he doesn't notice. All he can see is Sammy and think of the way he left him again like this.

And now, as he stares down at him through blurred and burning and wide eyes, he sees the face of everything he could have done differently, all the better choices he could have made, all the things he could have changed that didn't lead to where he is standing right now.

Beside a brother whose last wish was to see him, and died without having it.

Beside a brother he never said goodbye to, and was now wishing more than anything that he had.

Most of all, he wished he had just answered the call.

 

**…**

 

_"Y'know… I h-h've t'adm't… I-I… I don'… I don' think I w'nna d-die…" Sam gasps out between soft pants, chuckling weakly, mirthlessly. "N-n't b'fore… n't b'fore… I jus' wan'ed t'see him, y'know? One las'… one las' time."_

Bobby remembers those words, just before he fell asleep for the last time, and he thinks of them and watches his eldest try not to break over his brother's body, his jaw clenched hard as he silently stares down at his pale face. He sees him swallow and reach out his hand, slow and careful, until it's buried in Sam's hair, his breaths coming out shaky as his features crumple slightly. His lips tremble and his eyes shine with grief and pain and loss and Bobby closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the reflection of his failure staring him right in the face.

"Sammy…" he hears him whisper, strained and broken, and he doesn't want to open his eyes but he does.

The numbness settles inside Bobby as he watches Dean fall beside his brother's body and gather him into his arms, burying his face into his cold shoulder. His throat bobs as his face scrunches up hard and he closes his eyes and lets the tears fall, and Bobby wishes he had tried harder even though some rational part of him knows he had done everything he could given the situation.

But rationality would also mean accepting that he had lost one of his sons, so he doesn't want to be rational right now. Instead, he lets himself sink into this numbness and the denial that's holding on to the belief that Sam might come back somehow (he's done it before, hasn't he?) because the only other thing left to sink in was that horrible feeling of crippling grief and loss and failure.

He doesn't say anything. Just stays silent and watches.

Dean sobs into his brother's shoulder, all choked up and gasping and hard, all the grief and agony twisted up into that one strangled, inhumane sound. His arms are too tight around him, as if maybe he could make his heart start beating in his chest again if he holds on hard enough.

Then he slowly opens his eyes, sparkling wet with tears, and his gaze drifts over to him, swallowing down his pain enough to talk, and Bobby's sure that he's going to blame him, tell him it's all his fault, tell him that -

"Tell me..." he trails off, takes a deep breath and swallows again and struggles to keep his face from crumpling. "Tell me that he at least knew I was coming?" he whispers, almost breathlessly, with so much desperation and hope inside the choking need in his shaking voice, and Bobby knows he'd take a lie at this moment rather than a no. But he's lied so much this past week and he knows enough now to understand that it leads to nothing but false hope and regrets and a stone of guilt and truth in his stomach that only get heavier and heavier with each day that goes by without being spilled out.

So he says nothing, and lets the silence answer for him instead, because he knows he can't bring himself to be the one to crush the hope of the only comfort he could have now. He's already done enough of that.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head away to push his face up against Sam's neck and just lets the tears fall, sucking in a deep breath that quakes from all the sobs held in and the world load of pain inside that he could only hear.

 

**...**

 

What was that Sammy had once told him about small actions and large consequences?  _For the want of a nail, a shoe was lost..._

A choice. A small, unimportant choice of answering the phone or not.

It was never supposed to be a matter of life and death.

Sammy should have gotten out of that hospital weeks later, ignored Dean's calls in vengeance for the next few months, and then they were just supposed to run into each other in some unknown town, in some gas station or grocery store in the middle of nowhere or a hunt or whatever, and he was supposed to give him a pissed-off bitchface number #104 and stomp away like a hormonal teen, expecting Dean to come after him or something and he  _would_  have followed him out, offered to buy him his favorite coffee and salad and then everything was just supposed to be  _okay_.

But that wasn't what happened. No.

Instead, Sammy died, and he never said goodbye.

His throat burns with alcohol, but at least it numbs everything else. "You look like someone killed your puppy and made you watch," the bartender says, leaning casually against the counter of a bar two blocks away from the hospital where his brother just died.

"My brother died, and I never said goodbye," Dean replies the same words that have been repeating in his head over and over, smiling sardonically. His red and swollen, world-weary eyes are probably not going with the sarcasm though.

Her features soften. "Death can happen too suddenly and unexpectedly. You couldn't have known," she responds, sympathy in her voice. "You didn't get the time."

"Oh, I did." His voice starts to tremble, the pain in his chest starting to bloom up again, so he drinks the entire glass in one gulp and feels it disappear again. "I had one whole week. Just never picked up the phone."

 

**...**

 

Dean had taken Sam away from the hospital to a motel just near enough because he couldn't bear the idea of them putting him away in some morgue, like another one of their nameless corpses, for any number of time. He had laid him down in the backseat of the Impala, made him as comfortable as possible even though it wouldn't really matter because Sammy wasn't in there anymore to look up at him with his stupid, huge puppy eyes full of gratitude and a sleepy smile that always took him back to when they were four and eight and still believed that they would live together forever.

Dean's forever ended with Sammy's. He knows that. There is life (happiness and hope) in forevers. But there isn't any life for him after Sammy's just ended. Just empty, hopeless existence, trailing after hunts through endless roads after endless roads, wanting instead of fearing that this would be his last.

He leans against the wall, stares silently at Sammy lying lifeless (foreverless) on the motel bed as Bobby does beside him, and wonders how long it'll be before Lucifer chooses this town to burn into ashes.

He hopes it won't be too long, because there's no way he's cremating Sam. Not unless he burns with him soon after.


	9. Everything That Matters Most

Bobby watches Dean fade into the silence and television and the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It's been a week (and it has been just as slow and painful as the last one had been), and Dean's chin and jaw is covered in scruff, grief and loss and exhaustion hanging heavily in the bags under his weary eyes and the shadows around them. They make his cheeks look sunken; make him look even more pitiful. There's always those faint snarling lines around his slightly upturned mouth, hiding quiet rage at the world that's still carrying on and fate and Bobby and himself and almost everything that breathes (not Sam. Sam's not breathing anymore). His gaze is squinting into the screen, but something tells Bobby that he's only trying to get lost into whatever crap is playing on that box, and he's failing. He's trying to disappear inside something, into the TV or alcohol or sleep or false pretenses that Sam was hearing him. He's trying not to  _think_ , and it's not working. Not if Sam's dead body is lying on the same mattress it did three years ago.

It felt familiar, a sense of de-ja-vu. The loaded, stifling air around them, the darkness in Dean's eyes and the numbed pain around the bones and muscles of his face, Sam's corpse.

"Son," Bobby calls softly.

"Leave me alone, Bobby," Dean replies tiredly, his voice rough from disuse and the burning whiskey sticking to his throat.

"You haven't eaten anything," Bobby says instead of all the other things he should have said. But he didn't want to tell him that the cabin was starting to smell of his brother's death, or that Sam wanted to be cremated in a proper hunter's funeral, didn't want to tell him that he should get up and take a shower and brush his teeth and change his clothes, that destroying himself like this isn't going to bring Sam back, that Sam wouldn't have wanted this for him. Dean was raw inside, and the lightest of scratches would burn like hell, and Bobby has already hurt enough. He didn't want to do that anymore.

"I'm not hungry," Dean says, his tone strained and forced and low, like talking is grating him inside and sapping too much energy. It's all the same old depressing routine, and Bobby doesn't know what to do, feels like his head is blocked and confused and he's powerless, wanting a solution, an escape, a way to fix it all, and not knowing a single way on how he can do any of that. His full, burdened heart is pushing him down further into the seat of his wheelchair, taking strength off his shoulders and back, and he's exhausted deep from his skin to his bones, sick from his stomach to his throat with sorrow and guilt and longing for his lost son and the stench of death filling his nostrils every second of every day.

He doesn't know what to do.

 

**...**

 

Dean's sitting beside Sam again, talking to him as if he's still alive to listen to every word Dean says attentively and completely. Sam was always such a good listener. He wasn't lost in his own thoughts while someone was talking, and he never interrupted the other person.

Dean's smiling a little (it's the only time of day he ever does) as he speaks, hand lightly over his brother's pale hand, hesitant like he's fragile. He's telling him childhood memories, and it only gets sadder and sadder to see, because it's as if he's trying to make up for all that lost time of last week (God, was it all really one week ago?), but he knows it's not enough and he can't let go of this boy he practically raised after only twenty-seven years and so he's willing to carry his corpse around until he himself is gone too, or until the world ends.

"You wouldn't stop laughing, Sammy…" Bobby pieces the small, whispery murmurs together, like they had their own little world of memories and conversation within those walls, all theirs and no one else's, and Bobby felt like an intruder even being a room away.

Bobby turns his head away from the open door and instead stares at the food on the table that's gone cold. He doesn't know why he still puts it there every day when it'll just be left until the next morning, and the only person who can help that boy was lying colder on a bed.

 

**…**

 

Dean leaves on a morning, disappears for the whole day until night. Bobby was worried out of his mind the first hour, wondering what could have possessed him to vanish like this, where he could have gone, what he was going to do.

If he was going to come back or not.

But he sat beside Sam, stared at him and stared at him and stared at him as he drowned in the pool of emotions inside of him and tried not to break for the fiftieth time.

And then it hit him. It hit him hard and he couldn't believe it took him this long to figure it out.

It's all too similar to three years ago, and it's sickening, coupled with the memories of those few days, the same feelings, the same air and the same tragedy, and with everything that's happening now. It's so much worse now, so much more painful the second time. It rips off the band-aids from the old wounds, carves them open, and it makes newer, fresher ones too.

He runs a hand down on his weary face, feels a desperate, helpless, burning need (almost the same kind, he thinks, of that week before) to do  _something_ , to stop this whole thing from happening (but he just feels like he's trying to hold a tide back because there's  _nothing_  he can do), to stop Dean from making another stupid, goddamn deal that Sam would have to wake up to and face again, but his legs are his shackles to this crap of a wheelchair, and there's nothing he can do.

 

**…**

 

"What the hell did you do?" Bobby hisses, wheeling towards Dean, who was standing slumped in the doorway. Sam hasn't woken up, and he doesn't know whether to think that's good or bad.

"They wouldn't take my soul," Dean whispers, and standing there so dejected and lost, raw eyes and a broken voice, he looks like a defeated little boy who lost everything too soon (but everything never came until he lost his baby brother without a goodbye).

Bobby doesn't say anything, just leans forward until he can reach his hand on his eldest's shoulder. Dean shrugs it away and walks off, and Bobby already knows where he'd be sitting when he turns back.

"I'm sorry, Sammy…"

 

**…**

 

Sometimes Dean is sitting on the couch like there's nothing to exist for, like he's  _trying_ to forget that he does. Sometimes he's pacing like a caged animal, caged in a life between no Sam and no way to bring him back. He wants to escape, and Bobby's afraid of what that may imply, what it might lead to in the future. It doesn't seem like something Dean would do. Dean fights against the sufferings, the unfairness of the universe, pushes, thrashes, the heels of his feet digging as he's dragged. But the reason why he does any of that isn't here to watch him not give up, so he doesn't put it past him.

He feels like he's going insane, wondering when it'll become too much for the both of them.

 

**...**

 

Bobby finds out, on a Saturday, that they aren't out of miracles yet.

The devil, he learns, smells of fire and blood and roasted flesh. He smells like Hell, as he should. It mixes in with the sickening stench of his youngest son's cadaver (but he thinks it's becoming too familiar now, if he no longer feels overwhelmingly sick of it).

Lucifer's standing over Sam's body, green shirt and greener eyes with sandy blonde hair. His smile is crooked, calm as he looks at him, hidden fires of rage behind it all (the kind where the anger wears out into subdued tranquil, but the dull need for vengeance is never gone). Dean's sleeping, finally, but his hands are never empty of the whiskey bottles slowly vitiating his liver, and Bobby's not sure whether he should call him here or not (he's not sure if he'd even hear him in his alcohol-induced sleep).

"Get away from him," Bobby growls, his voice and his muscles angrily and fearfully trembling, but bold. Sam's dead and Dean might be following, he's in a wheel chair and the world's ending anyway (nobody left to try and save it) so he's right behind them. There's nothing left to lose.

"Very brave, Singer," Lucifer comments, tilts his head. "But I don't have the patience right now." He slowly turns back to Sam, touches his head gently, like a father to his child.

It's a short-lasting visit. Bobby is wise enough to stay silent, but not enough to stop glaring. There isn't anything bad he could do to Sam (it makes him wonder why he's even here), but it still bothers him having the friggin' Satan right next to his deathbed. It's an old protective instinct, now no longer necessary, it seems.

His heart is suddenly too heavy in his chest again, and he wants to sink into his wheel chair and never move an inch.

Lucifer withdraws his hand, glances at him one last time, with that same crooked smile hiding Hell in it.

And then he's gone.

But Sam's back.

There's air whooshing into Sam's lungs. He's gasping it all in, his mouth open, eyes large, ribs expanding as it rises higher, before relaxing back down. His chest is still heaving up and down after while he's panting for more oxygen, short intervals between each jounce, gaze wild as they dart around.

But it sounds like the most beautiful miracle Bobby's ever heard, given to them by the friggin' devil of all people.

 

**...**

 

Bobby doesn't let go of the kid for a whole long minute. He had sat there, watching him wither away in that one week while he hoped for just one thing to go right (and it didn't), and then wallowed in the hopelessness of never having him breathe again for another. And god, his chest is suddenly clearer, lighter, his heart fuller, but not with sadness. He can only imagine what Dean would feel like, seeing his brother back up and moving.

Sam smiles at him as he backs up. There's tears in Bobby's eyes, and he just takes a few seconds to take it all in. The kid's damn hair all over on his head and face, the deep kindness in his puppy eyes, the soft smile on his face.

"Dean's in the other room," Bobby talks first, motioning his head towards the room behind him. "You won't like what you see, though. Boy's been killing himself."

Sam's smile drains away at the mention of him, and he looks down sadly at his hands, biting his lip in a pause.

"He didn't come for me," then he says softly. He inhales. "I… I was dying, and - "

"He didn't know, son," Bobby cuts him off. "And he did come for you. He  _was_  coming. It was just too late when he got here."

Sam exhales gently, nods, and Bobby never did underestimate the boy's capacity for forgiveness.

 

**…**

 

Dean's mind wakes up another morning without open eyes, not ready to face the gray world yet again. His head is pounding and his stomach is nauseated, feeling like the swirling sickness is rising up to his throat. He doesn't know if it's the hangover or the meaninglessness and captivity.

"Dean?"

Every bit of mind he has flies out the window in that moment. He's frozen, incapable of moving or speaking. He thinks maybe he didn't wake up, maybe he's still dreaming of arguments about the best '90s movies and fighting over first showers or remote controls and of quiet smiles or loud laughters in the Impala; still dreaming about ignored calls and endless roads that never seem to finish and flat lining machines and sad hazel eyes staring into his own, asking him why he never came (and he never knew how to answer it with anything other than a broken apology).

Sleep is either the best part of his day now, or the worst (reliving Sammy's death is just as bad as living with it). It's screwed up how he still keeps craving it for the good dreams, just to see him alive again in them.

"Dean? You awake?" the voice asks him, rich and deep and gentle and kind. It's so easy to take normal, every-day things for granted, just until they're no longer normal and every-day. He misses it (misses everything about this stupid kid), regrets that he didn't appreciate it more, twisted into a longing for another chance to have it for real. He feels it every damn time he wakes up and realizes he probably never will.

Dean slowly opens up his eyes.

And sees  _him_ , kneeling on the floor in front of him while he's lying down on the couch.

And then he's being bombarded with memories of a little boy with those same eyes and that same brown floppy hair and that same love in his bones that seizes his heart and fills behind his ribs to his throat. He looks real. He looks so real. He wants it all so badly to be real.

"Sammy," he chokes it out through a shaky, pained whisper. He looks real (the colors and the clarity and the perfect detail of where his mole lies just a little left to the bridge of his nose and the way his broody eyebrows are naturally furrowed all the time and the way his dumb hair shines in the early morning light), and he knows this time that it isn't, and god, he wishes he could go back to the oblivion where he doesn't remember that Sammy's dead and he was too late and he's dreaming of insignificant memories that never really seemed to matter as much when they were making them.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sam hushes as his face crumples, catches his trembling fingers reaching towards his cheek. "Dean, it's okay. It's okay. I'm okay."

"No, you're not," Dean whispers, still choking on his pain. "You're dead."

Sam looks confused.

"No, Dean. I'm... I'm right here. Lucifer brought me back," he tells him.

That stills him completely for a moment.

Before he shoots up so swiftly, he finds himself in one moment to another without even realizing how it happened. He suddenly has not-Sam pushed down against the ground, his hands crushing his collar angrily. Not-Sam's hands are up in surrender, looking a bit nervous and confused as he stares up at him, breathing heavily (Breathing. He wishes it was his own Sam breathing).

"Get out of him!" he snarls, jerking his collar. He's ready to punch him, his fist raising and seconds away from diving into his face.

"Dean, I..."

"He's telling the truth, boy." Bobby comes wheeling in, interrupting the situation before it escalates into blood and bruises.

"Yeah? And how would you know that?" Dean hisses, his mouth twisted up into a sneer that looks like he's either close to breaking down or trying not to do any further damage. It's just salt on wounds, losing him and then seeing him walking and talking after a whole week of unbearable, overwhelming depression, only it's something else inside of him.

"Just look at him," is all Bobby says.

And Dean does.

He looks into hazel eyes, huge and soft and compassionate, with a depth of childhood adoration and humanness and a forgotten sadness of years and years in a damaged life still hanging heavily in them, the darkness of blood and bones and monsters that he's seen still living inside of them. He picks apart all the colors that are ever-changing in the different shades of light, like autumn leaves, and he's there, and he's looking back at him with a soft smile that rivals a world that tried to break him and a big heart that the sulfur in his veins was supposed to blacken and a kind soul that was meant to be evil since birth (and against all odds stacked against him, he came out still himself inside of himself) and it all comes together to form one name in his mind and on his lips and he  _knows_. He knows it's his Sammy.

"Sammy," he exhales it out in a breath, shaky and light, his bruised, burning eyes closing in relief, his chest unburdening, feeling the weight inside him slowly float away, and like his lungs aren't so tight and clogged anymore, but it's almost unbelievable to see him right here in front of him, alive and warm and tan-skinned (not dead and cold and pale).

"He brought me back. He couldn't have me dead if he wants my consent," Sam explains quietly. "I - "

Dean pulls him up by the collar and straight into his arms, feels the ribs on his back pushing and pulling back against them as he breathes, feels the warmth flooding in his bones for the kid and the ache of longing in them settle, the pain silenced by the solidity of him.

"You're back?" Dean asks it through a hoarse whisper. "You're really back?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam answers, nods against his shoulder with a smile. "I'm back."

Dean clutches him tight, and doesn't let go until he's sure it's not just another dream.

 

**…**

 

"I'm sorry," Dean says. Blurts it out, really, in the middle of a meal. There's chili steaming on the table, and he's hungry again for the first time because he's not sick and full with despair instead, but he doesn't touch it until he says the words that have been stuck in his whiskey-burned throat.

Sam startles at the sudden sound after a long stretch of silence, shoots his gaze up at him with his spoon half-way up to his mouth. Bobby's staring at him too now. Dean feels exposed in front of them after hiding away in his escapades for the past week, but he plows through. He clears his throat, still burning, still a little choked up and aching, and says, "I'm sorry for not coming. For not picking up the phone."

It's to Sam and to Bobby, and they're both looking at him but he's not ready to look back at them, to find anger creasing their brows and setting their gaze aflame. He almost feels stupid, ashamed, and too late, because he had already screwed things up, and he had only gotten lucky, and maybe they're thinking the same thing, thinking he's stupid for asking to be forgiven after everything and...

"Dean," Sam spoke first, and it's soft and understanding and it doesn't make him feel stupid at all. He ventures a glance at him. "You didn't know."

"I should have picked up the phone," Dean replied, and he feels like he had forgotten how to say or think anything but that.

"Maybe." It's Bobby this time, and he's just like Sam. "You damn well better not do that again... and you better learn how to forgive your brother because not all of it was entirely his fault." Dean wants to tell him that he already did, already realized it, but Bobby continues to talk. "But you also better learn how to forgive yourself now because beating yourself up about it isn't going to help anybody."

Dean stares down at his plate, wishes it would be as easy as it is to say it. He feels sick again. Talking about it brought all the feelings of guilt and regret and  _too close_  back, the fear of what could have been instead.

"Bobby's right, Dean," Sam joins in. "You can't keep beating yourself up about this. It's over, and we're all okay now."

"You don't- you don't understand, Sammy," Dean whispers, shaking his head. "I... I almost..."

"I know, Dean," Sam said quietly. "I had known it for four months."

"But we weren't... we weren't  _okay_. I didn't know you were dying, and I never said goodbye, and you died thinking I never would have come. I  _made_  you think that."

"Dean," Sam says, sighs softly. "Dean, you didn't make me think anything. I was selfish too. You were hurt and angry and I should have understood that."

"Never meant I wouldn't have come," Dean replies softly. "I would have if I had known."

Sam goes quiet, and silence follows between all three of them. But it's a different kind of silence than before, the kind where, even though there are still things to clear of it, feels like enough right now, like things are better and are only going to get better from here on. The peaceful, muted tranquil in the atmosphere makes their chests feel lighter and more open with hope.

Dean looks at Bobby and Sam, thinks back to the two weeks that don't feel as small as they should, and feels that at least everything that matters most is right again in his world.

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the reviews and kudos and bookmarks! It's been a great journey. I'm fairly new to Ao3, so I wasn't sure how people would react to my story, and let me tell you, I shouldn't have worried. You guys were so kind and sweet! *hugs* Thank you for giving me a good start here!


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